Streets: It’s The Way They Are

Reads: 3138  | Likes: 3  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Action and Adventure  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is fiction, not history. The scenario and events are a composite of many, as are the characters, good and bad. Not all Detectives are as self serving as the Great Detective. Neither are all
Street Cops as noble and courageous as Officer Petra Herrera or SGT O’Brien nor are all Chiefs as wise as the Chief Santos. There are many more Granny Arterberry’s in the worldthan most people are
aware of , though, and they are undoubtedly the fabric that keeps our diverse society together.

Submitted: December 03, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 03, 2017



In 1985, the country was just entering Ronald Reagan’s second term and the country seemed to be pulling out of the economic doldrums of the post Viet Nam days.  Lechuga Valley was no exception.  As with other blessings in life, this was a mixed event.

Jessie Mae Arterberry, more popularly known as Granma, was a very old, very gray haired, gray skinned, wiry black woman.  She was born in Depew, Oklahoma, in 1910. Her father, Ennis, born in the same town, served in the U.S. Army in Europe during WWI.  He returned to Depew when he was discharged from the Army.  Life for a black farmer in Oklahoma had never been easy, and it was no better for returning veterans of the Great War to End All Wars.  He heard of farm work in California, so he picked up his family and left.  On the way to points undecided, he stopped to pick lettuce in Lechugaville, California.  It was located in the middle of a very large green spot in the middle of a very large desert.  He liked it.  He was hired as a cook in the Asia Cafe and set down roots with his family.  Ennis fared well in the valley, sometimes working two jobs, picking produce in the day, and cooking at night.  His children worked the fields, too, and soon the family was able to buy a lot inside the city limits that was far enough away from the maddening crowd to enjoy the peace but close enough to the schools and amenities to enjoy the luxuries of life.  A couple of years later, he purchased a Sears and Roebuck Kit House for his family and put it together himself.  His family lived in a tent on the lot while he did this.  The finished house even had city water and was within walking distance of a good church. Her mother, Mary Pearl, and later Jessie Mae, prepared cakes and pies and other treats for all of the bake sales regardless of denomination. Her beans with ham bone, and cornbread, were legendary in the community and among the faithful flock of the Lechugaville John the Baptist Missionary Church.

Jessie Mae inherited the house and raised her family in it.  Her siblings all stayed near, except for the brother that joined the Navy to see the world.  He was killed in the war.  When her kids grew up they stayed nearby, as well.The grandkids were the first generation to search out new opportunities in new locales.  They attended the nearby two year college; one attended the four year teachers college in San Diego.  One went on to become a career Army officer.  She raised a couple of them when their parents were unable to.

She had her habits.  She swept the gutter and sidewalk in front of her house every morning and every evening and the alley behind it, too.  Anytime she saw trash in the front yard, she picked it up and disposed of it. 

Her great grandson, Ronnie, helped her.  His mother, her granddaughter, had died from cancer and his father had died in Viet Nam.

During the day, if he saw a piece of trash in front or in the alley, he’d pick it up and toss it in one of the trashcans in the alley.He didn’t spend that much time in the front yard though, it was that kind of neighborhood, so there was almost always trash to clean up in the evening.

Few of the people in the neighborhood knew or had ever known her real name.  Everyone called her “Granma,” except for those who called her Granny. 

On the hot Lechuga Valley afternoons, she sat on her covered front porch with the creaky floor boards and served up iced sweet tea to those interested in sitting and passing the time of day. She also read books to Ronnie.  On the hotter days, Ronnie and the neighborhood kids played with the water hose in her front yard.

It was on one of these hot iced tea and water hose days that the problems with P Dog began.  Granny was sitting on the front porch with a pitcher of iced sweet tea.  P Dog was talking to some of his street dealers on the sidewalk and he developed a need to urinate.  Granny’s plants around the porch seemed as good a place as any so he hopped the fence, walked across the lawn, proudly whipped out his penis and urinated.  Granny asked, in a less than cordial tone, “What do you think you’re doing?”

P Dog, “Taking a piss.  What the fuck does it look like?”

Granny, “Get off my property.”

P Dog, “Fuck you.  No, wait.  Want some,” pinching his penis near its base between finger and thumb and making it flop up and down; he then turned and walked back to the sidewalk, smiling broadly, his gold caps flashing brightly.  He and his buddies then stood on the sidewalk, brayed like donkeys, and cursed and threatened her.  That act was repeated a couple of times until she swatted him with her broom.  After that, he seemed to take the hint.

When the police cruised the neighborhood, Ronnie, would follow them as far as the end of the block, running down the sidewalk craning his neck to get a view of their shotgun, or their badges or radios.  If they stopped and got out, he would stand nearby and watch them.  If there was a fence nearby, he would climb it and sit on the top rail, swaying to and fro, barely holding on to his perch, to get a better view.  In his eyes, these men and women in dark blue uniforms were all bigger than life with oversized bigger than life silver badges driving bigger than life black and white police cars. 

Granma enjoyed watching reruns of Gunsmoke and Adam 12.  The boy wanted to be like Marshall Matt Dillon when he grew up.  If he couldn’t grow up to be Matt Dillon, he would grow up to be like Officer Malloy.

Lately, two police officers, a Mexican woman and a Mexican man, were spending a lot of time in the neighborhood.  Sometimes, they would drive slowly through the neighborhood, looking at the people on the sidewalk, nodding or waving at folk sitting on their front porches.  Other times, they would walk through, stopping and passing the time with folks in their front yards or on their front porches.  Sometimes they’d walk up and down the alleys.

When they walk down his block, the boy trails a few feet behind, not saying anything, simply watching her.

If they stop to talk to someone, he will stop a safe distance away and watch them.  In his eyes, everything about her is bigger than life.  She is a giant with giant shoulders and taunt thigh muscles pressing tightly against blue gabardine.

She has a pretty face.  Her black hair is pulled straight back but is wavy on the sides and tied in a bun.  The sun reflects off it.  She looks strong.  Her dark blue uniform is crisp, the black leather of her gun belt and shoes is polished and gleaming, and her badge is shiny silver.  While she wears a hint of perfume, what he notices the most was the smell of boot polish and gun oil.

Once, he reached out and touched the cuff of her long sleeve.

She has a big smile—red lipstick and white teeth.  She laughed, smiled down at him and hugged him briefly to her uniformed leg.  Her thigh muscles felt hard beneath the cloth.  “Hey, handsome.”

He stared at her without blinking.

And, then she was gone, leaving warm spots where his face had brushed against her trouser leg and her hand had pressed against his back.

The rookie, Petra Herrera, a former United States Coast Guard Rescue Swimmer, hears the gunshots and calls it in.  She begins cruising the neighborhood searching for the source.

Dispatch starts a two man backup unit in her direction. 

Her FTO, Field Training Officer Ross Garcia, heads that way without being asked.

The rookie is his responsibility.

The incoming Watch Commander is a man who had paid his dues.  He has come up the hard way, done his time in the investigations division and the police union and he isn’t ashamed to recite his pedigree.  Before he had been a police officer he had been a Marine—and he lets the unknowing know that, too. He hears the radio traffic over the speaker in the Watch Commanders office.

 “What is she doing over there?”

The outgoing Watch Commander, Lieutenant Deschamps, is a man who had spent his entire career—27 years—in the streets.  He’d been a Marine, too, but that seems like a long time ago.  It was something he did back them, now he is a police officer.  He likes the rookie.  She has balls. 

“Working her beat.”

“I can’t believe you let her or anybody else work a single car in that area.”

“It’s what police officers do.”

The BMW is dark blue with blue lights in the wheel wells and lining the grill and front and rear windows.  It carries four young men.  Each wears a blue hankerchief wrapped around his head and tied in square knot the front with the ends sticking up like little horns.  Each wears blue running shoes with blue laces.  Each has a mouth full of gold dental caps and gangster tattoos on their arms, face and neck.

They get out of the car and stand around the boy.

The boy stands his ground.

“We done tole you not to give us any shit, nigger.”

“Don’t talk like that in my Granma’s yard.”  He is scared but he is pretty sure that he was doing what Marshall Dillon or Officer Malloy would do.

P Dog empties his Mac-9 and reloads.  Then at the top of his voice, “I am P Dog.  I am P Dog, and you niggers are not gonna challenge me!”

“I am P Dog,” he bellows, spewing saliva, “and, if’n I see or hear of any of you nigger trash talkin’ to thuh pohlice, I’ll come back and I’ll kill you as dead as this piece of shit nigger on this sidewalk.”  The old woman is holding the fallen boy, screaming for Jesus to save him.  P Dob unzips his trousers and pulls out his penis, “This is the bitch what didn’t want me pissing on her fucking flowers,” he kicks her, “so, I’ll just piss on you.”  He tilts his head back and laughs, bray and part howl, as he pees on her.

The old woman screams and cries and covers the dead boy with her body, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, save us, Jesus.”

P Dog turns to the nearby homes and at the top of his lungs, “I am P Daaaawwwwg.”

He bellows again, “I am P Dog!” and it echoes off the buildings.

P Dog finishes his speech, and he and the others began to walk varying distances from the BMW, firing their weapons at the rotting old wood houses that line the street.

After emptying a couple of magazines, they get in their Blue BMW and leave without saying more.

The rookie cop, Petra Herrera, enters the block from the south.  She sees the old woman kneeling on the sidewalk holding something to her bosom and rocking back and forth.  The woman, wailing loudly surrounded by a pool of blood and bits and pieces of something in the street is holding the boy.  A large part of the boy’s head is missing.

Herrera stops her car just short of the old woman and dead boy.  She advises dispatch, requests more cover officers and approaches quietly.

The boy is dead.  The bits and objects in the street are pieces of his skull and brain.

You recognize the Great Detective, Harry MacGowan, by the great deference others show him.  Everywhere he goes he is accompanied in his mind by a deep throated narrator announcing his war on crime to a background of the soundtrack music from his favorite spaghetti western playing over and over, proclaiming that he is “Dirty Harry MacGowan, the Enforcer.”Crowds part before him like the waters of the Red Sea for Moses. If they don’t, he lifts his hands like Moses and blue suited patrol officers will part them for him.

Clearly, he is the anointed one.  Clearly, he is annoyed.  He needs his sleep and these callouts are tough.

As the proverb goes, you can’t soar with eagles if you’re grounded with the turkeys, woe unto whoever misses the prissy purse of his lips that signals his unhappiness or the fact that he is looking over his glasses at them because, while Dirty Harry MacGowan doesn’t ride a pale horse and his name isn’t death, hell surely follows his dissatisfaction.

The female cop is not having a good night.  “What do you mean, ‘Cut him loose.’” 

Great Detective is kissing her off because she clearly doesn’t have the social status to speak to him directly.

An older cop with scarred face and faded uniform is leaning against a black and white, watching Harry.  Harry is avoiding looking at him.

“I smell something.  Is the wind blowing from the rendering plant?”  He wrinkles his nose makes a sniffing noise.  “I smell something rotten.”

Harry turns his back to him.

“And now, it is almost gone.  Just like that.  Hey, big man, Detective MacGowan.  Did you know that when you talk your breath smells like decomp?  Yeah.  Like decomp, like something that died and decomposed in your mouth.”

The female cop raises her hand in a stopping motion to the old cop and tells the Detective, “Look at me, I’m talking to you.  We have this guy right now.”  She knows he is going to kiss off the case.  It was the way the Great Detective showed his expertise—explaining to lame brains why a perfectly good case can’t be prosecuted.

The old street cop continues, “Have you ever thought about gargling with that new minty scented douche?  They have strawberry scented, too.  It’d be nice if they’d come up with some cinnamon flavored douche, too.  Just like the cinnamon flavored mouthwash.  Huh?”

The Detective continues pretending to ignore the old cop but turns to the Sergeant, “Your rookies address senior detectives in this manner?”

“She’s right.”

The patrol sergeant tells his officers to write up the witness statements and to make copies of them.  He also tells them to make copies for themselves and turn in the originals in to himself.

The Great Detective is sympathetic to the Case Detective on the scene and shows it. Like most detectives, the Case Detective is a member of either the Union Board of Directors or one of the Special Committees.  He owes his job to Harry and clearly knows his place in the pecking order.“Those guys don’t understand and they don’t care.  That’s why they’re patrol officers and not detectives like us.  So, whatcha got?”

“Not much.  Another dead nigger.”

The Patrol Sergeant, Tommy O’Brien, is arguing with the detective on the scene.  “We have this asshole detained two blocks from here.  He was on his way back through here to see what was happening when we stopped him.  We have statements from almost every adult on this block.  Of course they’re not going to come out here in the street where they can be seen.  The Blue Suits talked to all of them at their front doors, and they all identified P Dog and his three buddies.  Everyone on this block was watching out their windows until they began spraying the houses with their Mac 9’s.  If we arrest the sons of bitches and lock them up, the court’s gonna hold them with no bail, the people will testify and these mother fuckers will get to suck a lung full of green gas.  If we don’t arrest them, this entire block with know it in a minute and these thugs will be bullet proof to do whatever they please because the people here won’t trust us to do our jobs.”

The Detective is just as adamant, “this is a go nowhere case, a dead end.  These people aren’t going to tell us shit.  It’s the way they are.”

Three days later, at the beginning of his shift, Sergeant O’Brien finds a note in his inbox.  “See the Chief.”  He walks down the hallway and into the Chief’s office.  The Chief’s secretary, Guadalupe Saldana, looks up, smiles broadly and says, “There he is, have a seat I’ll let him know you’re here.”  A few minutes later, his Watch Commander, Lieutenant Deschamps, walks in and sits down.Shortly thereafter, the Detective Commander walks in and sits down.

The secretary picks up her phone, dials a number and says, “They’re all here.” She looks at the three seated men, “The Chief will see you now.”

When the men enter the Chief’s office, he is seated at his conference table.  He seems to be relaxed and motions them to sit.  He speaks, “Beatrice Chesterfield, City Councilwoman.”  The three men sit sphinx like, waiting what is to follow. Few things involving Beatrice end up good.

“The Tuesday shooting on K Street.  That kid that was murdered.”  He looks at O’Brien, “Your people arrested some clown who calls himself ‘P Dog.’”  O’Brien nods.  Lt. Deschamps, watching the Sergeant, but not yet fully understanding what is happening, nods too. The detective commander, in a Pavlovian response, looks dumfounded.

The Detective Commander, coughs, clasps his hands on the table and speaks, “That was terrible, sir.  That boy was gunned down in the street.  Unfortunately, there are no witnesses.  No case.  I was briefed on it first thing Wednesday morning.  Justice for that boy is falling victim to the code of the Eastside.  See nothing, say nothing, live to see another sunrise.”  He shrugs, “It’s the way they are.”

The Chief shifts his attention from the Detective Commander to  Deschamps.  Deschamps meets his eyes but is clearly trying to understand what is happening.

He now shifts his attention to O’Brien, who meets his gaze evenly.  He is still leaning back in his chair, hands clasped across his stomach.

“Where were you this morning?”

“In court.”


“I was there for a case,” the street cop is unperturbed.  He and the Chief sit quietly, looking at each other.

The Detective Commander coughs again and speaks, “Chief, that case was not filed.  My detectives said there was no evidence and told the patrol officers not to arrest the suspect.”  He looks at the Chief and O’Brien and then again the Chief.  “Chief, I don’t know about any arrest and the case wasn’t assigned.”

The Chief is still looking at the O’Brien.  “Four suspects, four arrests, P Dog included.  All L.A. Crips.  All four were arraigned this morning; all four are bound over for a preliminary hearing and remanded to custody with no bail.”  The O’Brien nods affirmatively.

The Detective Commander has a confused expression, “Huh?”

 “There are at least twenty witnesses on the witness list, all gave statements, some gave written statements.  The arraignment deputy said the dead kid’s grandmother, Granny Arterberry, her family has lived in that place on K Street since right after World War One, was in court for the arraignment.  She broke down crying and had to be helped outside to calm herself.  He said the press was there and saw it all.  He said that that was a ‘nice touch.’”  His eyes have not yet left the Patrol Sergeant.  He picks up a thick bunch of papers from his desk and hands it to the Chief of Detectives.  “Here, your very own copy of the crime report and arrests complete with witness list, witness statements, and suspect descriptions.”  He paused, “Records says they forwarded two copies to Investigations, per the SOP.”

The Detective Commander blinks his eyes several times, “The case is not assigned.”

Deschamps breaks in, “What did Beatrice want?”

“She wanted to know how we could expose that elderly lady to such risk in a case with no witnesses and no evidence, and then she wanted to know how long we’re going to tolerate this lawlessness on the Eastside and accused us of not caring about people of color.”

“We booked four Mac 9s that we took from the suspects and picked up dozens of expended rounds at the scene.  Everything has been fingerprinted and the fingerprints have been sent to the crime lab for comparison with the incustody suspects.  The Crime Techs bagged and tagged everything and took blood samples from the scene, Chief.”

“I know.”

“The Coroner took several slugs from the boy’s body.”

The Detective Commander was still confused, “But…”

The Chief cut him off, “Sanchez from the Gang Detail filed the case but he’s going to need some help.  Looks like you have a lot of work to do.  Sanchez has the lead, but I want you to assign a detective to the case to help him.”

“Shouldn’t that be the other way around, sir?  Assign a detective the case and Sanchez to help?”


“Yes, sir, but…”


He gestures toward the door, “May I?”

 The Chief is still looking at the Patrol Sergeant but he nods affirmatively.  The Detective Commander leaves.

“Sergeant O’Brien, I’m assigning you to a special detail.  Take two or three officers from each shift, and I want around the clock extra patrols around Granny Arterberry’s house and neighborhood for the next two weeks.  You’re authorized to schedule and approve their overtime. Pick the people you want, and if you have any trouble from the other Watch Commanders, Lt. Deschamps can explain to Captain Caine and the other Watch Commanders.  Captain Caine can contact me if he has questions.  In two weeks, you and Lieutenant Deschamps will evaluate the situation and decide where to go from there and brief me.” 

“Yes, sir.”

The Chief sat for a moment and then, “Thank you.”

Friday morning.Four days after the murder of Ronnie Arterberry.  The Chief picks up a dozen donuts at Trans Donut Joint and Taco Chop and heads on to the office.  He also buys a bottle of orange juice and three tamales for his breakfast.

He eats his breakfast at the conference table in his office.  In the outer office, Detective Harold MacGowan is loudly demanding to see the chief.  Lupe, the executive secretary who has sometimes been accused of running the department, sticks her head in the door and tells him that the Detective commander and three detectives would like to see him, and raises her eyebrows.  He tells her to show them in and asks her to summon the Patrol Division Commander.

When the three men enter, he motions for them to sit at the conference table and requests their permission to continue with his breakfast.

He asks, “What is the status of the Arterberry investigation?

The division commander says, “I don’t know.  That isn’t why we asked for this meeting.”

“You didn’t ask for his meeting.  It sounded to me like you were demanding it.”  He gestures to Harry.  “Were you yelling at Lupe?”

“I was not.”

“It sounded like it.  Your voice was pretty loud”

Harry’s lips are puckering and unpuckering and pursing as though he is trying to kiss the air.  When he purses his lips and then relaxes them, his mustache looks like a caterpillar crawling across his face.  He is blushing.  “Only law enforcement personnel assigned to the Investigations Division in an investigative capacity are called “Detectives.”  It is right there in the Personnel Management Section of the City Rules and Regulations.”

“All right.”

The Division Commander looks hesitatingly at Harry, “What is the status of the Arterberry case?”

“I don’t know.  I asked you first.  I told you to assign someone to the case to assist Sanchez.  Who is doing that?  Don’t they know?”

“We would like to express our dismay that the Gang Detail is being assigned homicide cases.”

“I don’t think it was assigned to him.  I think your detective said it wasn’t solvable and Sanchez picked it up and filed it with the Issuing Deputy District Attorney.  If your guys close it and another officer picks it off the trash heap and gets it prosecuted, you can’t really complain about non detectives working it.”  The Chief looks at the Union Officers and then at Harry, “Or, can you?”

The Detective Commander clears his throat and looks at the three men who came into the office with him, “They’re not Detectives.”

“No they are not.”

Harry’s mouth and mustache were now working overtime, “Then why are they investigating a murder?”

The Chief pivots in his chair to look directly at the Great Detective, “They are police officers.  They investigate crimes, when appropriate, they arrest suspects.  When appropriate, they take cases to the Issuing Deputy District Attorney and request charges be issued against the suspect or suspects and that those suspects, or suspect, be prosecuted in a court of law.  There is nothing in the Personnel Rules and Regulations that prohibit police officers from presenting cases to the DA for prosecution.” 

The Great Detective is frustrated, his lips are working frantically as if they can’t decide how they want to be, he stiffens, “They shouldn’t file cases that we reject, this embarrasses the department with the DA because this is a shit case, they’ll start rejecting everything we submit.”

“The DA issued all requested charges.  He apparently doesn’t think they are shit charges.”

 “This is an embarrassment.”

“An embarrassment to the department,” the Chief pauses, “or you?”

The Harry stands and starts toward the door.  “I don’t have to put up with this abuse.”  The two Union officers are looking uncertain as to what to do, but they get up and follow Harry out the door.  The Investigations Commander seems confused and perhaps caught between two undesirable outcomes, but the Chief nods toward the door so he leaves, too.

A moment later, Captain Caine, Patrol Division Commander, sticks his head in the door and raises his eyebrows, “Chief?”

“Any updates on the Arterberry case?”

“No.  Sergeant O’Brien has people on foot patrol in that area pretty much 24 hours a day.  The Crips have moved their business elsewhere.  All quiet.  I’ll find out when the prelim date is and let you know.”

In reaction to the shocking event of the machine gunning of a young boy on the sidewalk in front of his grandmother’s home, the valiant and courageous possessors of the wisdoms of the ages boldly stepped to forward to share their wisdoms and insight into matters that few if any of them knew much about much less had any insight into.  Sagacious sounding talking heads filled the airways and cables with solutions for all occasions. 

Editorialists and other opinionators, sudden and unexpected experts about a neighborhood they had never heard of in a town they had never heard of, drew battle lines condemning or praising the shooters or the police or the people in that neighborhood.  “Well, John, the problem is poverty.  Children in the inner city grow up with no hope and they lash out in frustration searching for help and that is just what this is, John, a cry for help.  Will you reach out with a helping hand?”  “Well, Martha, there’s the problem.  Those people are always in line for a hand out.  Those people need to stand up on their hind legs and take their neighborhood back.”  Others, “Drugs are the problem.  The inner cities are awash with drugs.”  “The white man is making money off these problems.”  “Drugs are the white man’s way of oppressing black people and all people of color, you can’t believe a word they say.”  “God is punishing us for our sins.”  “Jesus saves.”

Friday night, as was her wont, Beatrice Chesterfield, City Councilwoman, stood on the steps of the Lechugaville City Hall in front of a bank of cameras and microphones.  “This week, our society has been attacked, both from without and within.  Foreign drug dealers from Los Angeles and Compton have invaded our fine city.  They have occupied large areas of it and claimed it as their own and they deal cocaine and heroin and marijuana openly on the corners and they have turned those areas into free fire zones where decent law abiding Americans cannot walk without fearing for their lives.  Worse, our own Chief of Police is waging a war on our own police officers, haranguing good, honest, hard working detectives who are trying to do their jobs and dispatching female police officers alone, armed only with the pistol on her hip to walk foot patrols in these streets that are just as dangerous as any Viet Nam jungle.  This is being denied in the highest offices, but on my honor, I pledge to you that the truth will out.”

Sunday morning, six days after the machine gunning death of eight year old Ronnie Arterberry.  Patrol cops drive out of the police department back lot and into the city streets to wander hither and yon looking for things to do and crimes to solve, little girls play hopscotch on city sidewalks, little boys start pickup baseball games in empty lots, the devout and a few pretenders get dressed for church, and the junkies roam the streets looking for a fix.

Early Mass is over.  Chief Santos is sitting at one of the picnic tables on the shaded patio at Tran’s Doh Nhut Joint and Taco Chop, reading the Sunday San Diego Union newspaper and eating a bowl of menudo. 

Ross Garcia and Lupe Saldana are seated with him.

Ross speaks, “Did you hear Beatriz’s press conference?”

Chief Santos, “Yeah.”


“It is what it is.”  He nods at a few off duty Morning Watch cops who have stopped in after shift for donuts and coffee or menudo.  Some pickup donuts for the kids at home.  "How is Herrera doing?"

"Great.  She is good with people, she writes good reports, no complaints.  Seems to be well liked."

"You know, she grew up here?"

"Yep.  She graduared from Lechuga High with my son."

A couple of on duty Day Watch cops stop in for coffee and donuts, “Morning, Chief.”

He nods to them, “Mornin’ fellas.” 

“How goes it?”

“It goes.”

© Copyright 2018 Eddie C Morton. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments:

More Action and Adventure Short Stories